


Scavenger Hunt

by Cafechan



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Multi, really platonic shipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cafechan/pseuds/Cafechan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little snippets of rare pairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scavenger Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> lux on tumblr posted a list of rare pairings for tf2 on tumblr, so i wrote these. most of them are not especially shippy though...

**1\. Heavy x Sniper**

Sniper snorts through his nose; even his massive rifle looks like a child’s toy in Heavy’s hands. The large man holds it with all the grace of a child, too.

“Nah, nah, like this, mate…” Sniper takes back the gun and poises it appropriately, glancing between the scope and his companion to make sure he’s still paying attention.

Heavy grumbles, a low and deep sound that rumbles in the back of his throat. It’d sound a lot like pouting if it weren’t such an imposing noise. “These hands not made for itty bitty things.”

Sniper snorts again, smiling affectionately as he rests the rifle against the wall. He figures they’ve had enough of weaponry for the day, anyway. “Not even itty bitty pancakes? ‘Cause I hear we’ve got some mix in this week’s rations…”

Heavy’s eyes light up, and he follows his friend out of the sniping nest with a grin as broad as befits a man of his girth. “That, I can handle.”

* * *

**2\. Engineer x Medic**

“Doc, can I get your opinion on somethin’?” 

Medic looks up from his desk and gestures to a spare seat. Engineer nods appreciatively and slides into the stiff, unforgiving office chair, adjusting his goggles on the way down. With a sigh and the weaving of his fingers, he answers Medic’s wordless expression of expectation. “You know I ain’t much one for philosophical stuff. You and me… we’re men of science.”

The doctor nods briefly, resting his palms against documents forgotten.

“And I like testin’ out my toys on the REDs as much as any of the rest of the guys do. I know you do, too.”

He nods again, resisting an inappropriate urge to smile.

“But, I dunno. Do you ever wonder…? Respawn or not, we’re makin’ a living off of murder.” Engineer shifts, uncomfortable, readjusting his goggles again.

Medic, on the other hand, only sniffs and looks unimpressed. “You are having a morality crisis over whether or not what we do is ‘wrong.’ Yes?”

“…Yeah.”

“You are a smart man, Dell. Do not over-think things. They are getting paid to kill us just as much as we are to them. It is, by definition, not homicide if the other party is participating.” For all of his psychosis, the team’s healer manages to soften his angular features enough to come off as reassuring. “Understood?”

“Yeah… I guess. The government might have somethin’ else to say about that, though." 

“Well.  _Fick die Regierung._  We have a job to do.”

The irreverence in Medic’s voice startles a chuckle out of Engineer. “I have no idea what you just said, Doc, but I agree one hundred percent.”

* * *

 

**3\. Soldier x Spy**

It takes finesse and patience to be a spy—those are simply qualities that differentiate the good spies from the dead ones—and BLU Spy would like to imagine that he’s competent enough in his field. But perhaps, he ponders, he’s finally found the thing that will break him.

“NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT. A SOLDIER NEEDS ONLY HIS UNIFORM ON HIS BACK, A WARM GUN IN HIS HAND, AND A PASSION FOR HIS COUNTRY BLAZING IN HIS LOINS. I DO NOT NEED A MONKEY SUIT.”

“ _Mon dieu_ , Soldier, lower your voice. You are giving me a headache.” Spy rubs two gloved fingers in irate circles against his temple. “It was only a suggestion.”

“IT WAS A TERRIBLE SUGGESTION.” Once Soldier’s spirits have escalated, it’s easier to headshot a caffeinated Scout. The veteran stomps a foot with patriotic outrage, and Spy isn’t entirely sure that an American flag backdrop isn’t going to spontaneously appear. “BLU GAVE ME THIS UNIFORM AND I WILL WEAR IT UNTIL I DIE, OR UNLESS ENGINEER IS WASHING FOOD STAINS OUT OF IT.”

“I get it, I get it! We will not go suit shopping! Get off of the table!”

* * *

**4\. Spy x Pyro**  

He likes a challenge. He likes one wrapped in a bit of danger even more. All the best things in the world come with risks, and he’s keen on having the best for himself. After all he’s been through, heaven knows he  _deserves_  it.

His team is the best. The enemy team is just a little stupider and less competent, and he makes it his business to remind them of this fact whenever the opportunity presents itself. “Your aim is almost as bad as your looks.” “Your team will miss you even less than I do.” “I never really was on your side.”

He’s the best, too, of course. His knife is an additional appendage by now, sliding with ease between shoulder blades and disappearing just as smoothly.

The enemy Pyro, though…

As many times as he’s slipped into the enemy base as if it were his own apartment, the enigmatic creature has never left a trace as to who—or what—they could possibly be. Spy will grit his teeth and rifle through top secret document after top secret document (despite the reprimanding he’ll receive from Miss Pauling later), to no avail. He’ll sneak into their resting quarters night after night, with the faint hope that he’ll catch the permanently masked conundrum’s true visage.

He’ll chew angrily at the end of a cigarette and wonder why he wants to know more so badly, then realize that the only knowledge that is absolutely certain about their Pyro is that they’re obscenely adept with a flamethrower, and that their glass sockets are just as black and empty, whether they’re victorious or smeared with the blood of defeat.

Infuriating.

Intriguing.

He decides he can spare a moment, just this once, in his busy schedule to satisfy his inconsequential curiosity. Trembling fingers find their way to a neck beneath the layers of uniform, pulsing against flesh so warm that it seems to burn straight through his gloves. If the eyes behind those glass sockets are angry or defiant, he can’t tell, though the body beneath him twitches and flails in protest.

That’s fine, he thinks. It’s no fun if he doesn’t have to fight for what he wants.

His fingers slide upwards.

“Let us finally see what’s behind this blasted mask.”

* * *

[this one got omitted hrm]

* * *

 

**6\. Scout x Engineer**

“I told you not to touch that darn thing.”

Scout just hissed a few vulgarities underneath his breath as he cradled a bleeding arm against his body. ”Engie, what the hell, man!! I thought these things only shot BLUs!” The younger man gave the sentry a hard kick, only to recoil in pain again, falling flat on his butt and coming dangerously close to teary-eyed.

“That one’s a work in progress. She ain’t runnin’ at full speed yet. Like I said—”

“Yeah,  _yeah_ , don’t touch your shit. I  _got_  that.” Scout wiped his soaking hand against a pants leg and gripped the bullet hole despairingly. The gushing wouldn’t stop, and he was starting to go a little pale. Of course, he took bullets on the battlefield all the time, but it was easier to ignore the pain when he had adrenaline and sweat pumping. “Cripes, this figures. The _one_ day Doc decides to go out of town…”

“Respawn’ll fix it,” Engineer said easily, wrapping his fingers around a shotgun on the table. “Want me to send ya there myself? Or d’ya wanna just wait ‘til the Monday grind?”

“Jesus, Engie. Put the gun down.” Scout’s eyes widened at the sympathetic but downright distressing offer. “I ain’t no baby. Slap some bandages on that an’ I’ll be good to go.”

“Fair enough.” The Texan smirked and opened a drawer. “I think we’ve got Flintstones bandaids in here, if you want ‘em.”

* * *

**7\. Heavy x Pyro**

Heavy knows that his english isn’t very good. He knows some of the others misinterpret his ineloquent words as stupidity, and he’d be lying if he said it never bothers him. He’s got a thick skin, but it’s frustrating when he can’t quite articulate the way he wants to. Even more frustrating when his broken english becomes the butt of his teammates’ jokes.

Pyro understands him, at least. If there’s anyone more misunderstood than himself, it’s their little firebug. On the rare days when Heavy grows weary of his team and their stupid, fluent english, he retreats to the loft and surrounds himself with his favorite Russian literature. Ironic, how he can talk like a college professor in his native language, and the others are none the wiser.

A few times, now, Pyro’s found him like that with his barriers of books, only to sit down and rest their chin patiently against their knuckles. The first time, Heavy was not sure how to react. With some pantomiming and muffled noises, Pyro managed to convey that they wanted Heavy to read to them.

He complied then, and he has every subsequent time after. He doubts the Pyro understands a single word of Russian, but they seem to be enjoying themselves, anyway.

* * *

**8\. Medic x Pyro**  

“You are certain you understand the procedure?” Medic asks, dubious, wheeling a cart of utensils and the like over to the operation table. Pyro, lying calmly as if the table is a bunk, nods with their arms folded across their chest. It’s unlike Medic to really brief  _anyone_  on what he’s about to do with his knives and needles, but he somehow found himself talking Pyro through it anyway. From day one, Pyro’s taken particular care that bordered on obsession to avoid revealing… well, much of anything. And today’s operation is rather invasive, so it only seemed fair to give them the head’s up.

Medic isn’t really sure what he expected. Maybe Pyro simply up and leaving, or getting angry and shooting off all sorts of muffled nonsense. But, no. They just wait complacently for the impending heart transplant and the inevitable invasion of privacy.

He can’t help but ask. “ _Herr_ Pyro… You know I keep all of your medical affairs as confidential as possible, correct?”

Pyro stills for a moment, then reaches a hand up for their mask. Slowly, they pull away just enough to reveal a small, chapped mouth. Whether it’s masculine or feminine, Medic cannot tell, nor does he particularly care.

Pyro whispers lowly, quietly, little more than a rasp: “I trust you, Medic.”

* * *

**9\. Scout x Soldier**

It’s a secret, but Scout kind of admires Soldier. Just a bit.

Soldier kind of pisses him off in that he yells a lot, and he knocks over the breakfast table when he gets too excited, and he calls Scout girl names whenever he messes something up. But Soldier also impresses him in that he’s dedicated and ridiculously focused on his goals, no matter how gory or psychotic they may be. That kind of devotion was something Scout never got to see a male example of in any of his ever-changing stepfathers, and it’s a little exciting to work with a living, breathing, screaming personification of pure American zealousness and machoism.

He’ll be private about it, but every now and then, Scout will puff out his chest and try to clench his jaw like Soldier and hope that he’ll be as cool as him when he’s older and crazier.

* * *

**10\. Demoman x "Anyone who isn’t Soldier" (Medic)**  

“You are drunk.” Medic nurses something mild and fruity as Demo downs another shot of something hard and probably gross and straight out of the nasty old war rations, declaring his love for the doctor all the while.

“I am, but I luv ya all th’ saaaame,” he insists, leaning against Medic’s shoulder. Medic shrugs away from the unwanted affection and squares his body, stiff as a plank. Not even the influence of alcohol can take the edge off of him.

“You are drunk and you are being _incredibly_ obnoxious,” the older man repeats, a little more irritably this time. Scout and Sniper, who drink with a lot less moderation and hold their liquor much more poorly than he does, are sitting across the table and giggling at his expense, and it’s not doing much for his sour mood.

“Don’t be such a tightass, Doc,” Scout chuckles. “Demo’s jus’ tryinna be nice.”

Medic considers this with a small scowl. Perhaps Scout was right. After all, he _does_ do a lot for this team, and maybe, in his own, drunken way, Demo’s just trying to express his grati—

_Slurp._

Ah. Yeah. No.

Medic draws the line at drunken face-licking.

“I- _IDIOT!_ ”


End file.
